Friday, July 25, 2014

Last hot days of the honeymoon

I'm a few days away from the beginning of the behemoth of the third trimester (not all pregnancy weeks are equal), which leers at me with a wink askew from the approaching shadows...and I admit, I am scared.

I know everything is going to become more difficult and it's already no picnic (and here I am solely using the idiom, for in truth picnics can be quite stressful - what charcuterie to bring? What fromage? What vin? Whom to invite? How not to invite those insufferable people that have clawed their way to the periphery of the group and are clutching as if their health depended on immersion into the clique).

Not only am I finding the weight difficult to deal with (unashamedly making suggestive statements to hubby in order to lure him into more foot massages which readily will simply turn to "another, please" with an expectant smile on my face- he can't say no to the belly, right?) and am never comfortable, although most comfortable with my pregnancy pillow (my new best friend!) and ordinary movements difficult to negotiate (such as putting on my shoes, getting out of our futon-style bed and soon fearing issues with that delicate act of independent personhood, wiping my own butt), but my brain has packed up shop and is currently sipping a white Bordeaux, looking out wistfully at the shore in Côte d'Azur leaving me to scramble with no short term memory, unforgivable syntax and the logical aptitude of a maggot.

Just a few minutes ago, during a call in which I explained my hubby and I had to leave our loft in the village which we love so much, I stated to a somewhat awkwardly silent reception that "unfortunately, we're having a baby in two months and have to leave." A few days ago, I signed my name "Australia" in an email, albeit I did not feel overly patriotic at the time (in fact I had just been reading some delightful insights by our PM and was lugubriously laughing) although to my credit, both proper nouns start with "A" and have nine letters.

I can only imagine the delightful gaffes I will make at the pretrial conference at the Southern District I have coming up. On the positive, it may give opposing counsel a false sense of security, which I trust I will crush when my intellect returns from its sun dappled sojourn.

My dad, an avid believer of Murphy's Law, always quick to say that things go wrong just at the moment you need them the most (with a smile that invades any conversation and a laugh with seismic effect), thought it hilarious that our A-C went kaput a few days ago. I did not find the same humour during the 33 degree (celsius people, nine years in this country and I still don't get Fahrenheit - I wonder if it's a question on the citizenship exam?) heat, not exactly uncommon for mid July in the city. I drenched myself under a cold shower trying to keep all thoughts on the world's freshwater crisis firmly tamed. I stuck my head in the fridge and ignored creeping thoughts as to the needless emissions I was creating. I even strolled over to the supermarket a block away and walked around the frozen food aisle, acting interested at bags of frozen pees and pizza to get away from the strangling heat until the staff started passing me by with inspecting looks and I knew it was time to face the heat anew.